


Freaking Out

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cuban Lance (Voltron), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gay Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Japanese Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Nightmares, Shiro (Voltron) Has Issues, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, can't sleep, late night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: Pebbled goosebumps litter Shiro’s shoulders as he bolts up, panting. Sleep is a hazy aftertaste in his mouth and teeth gnash at him from the corner of his room, chasing him from his dreams. His arm aches dully. He winces as his sockless feet hit the floor and he runs his heavy palm through the drooping fringes of his hair. Against his will, his eyes drop closed and he jolts, purplish glow permeating through his eyelids.





	Freaking Out

Pebbled goosebumps litter Shiro’s shoulders as he bolts up, panting. Sleep is a hazy aftertaste in his mouth and teeth gnash at him from the corner of his room, chasing him from his dreams. His arm aches dully. He winces as his sockless feet hit the floor and he runs his heavy palm through the drooping fringes of his hair. Against his will, his eyes drop closed and he jolts, purplish glow permeating through his eyelids. 

He’s not sure what time it is, never is really. His sleep schedule is a shotgun approach, minutes collected from the hushed moments of daybreak to the twilight musings of a team puttering off to bed. The castle is quiet, humming only with the distinct life of machinery and the haunted remnants of a once lively beast slumbering. He reaches the kitchen first, fingers itching for his favorite mug, already filling up the pilfered coffee pot with water before his brain even clears the cobwebs enough to moan for caffeine. He’s tired. His whole body aches. He shivers with the aftershocks of his nightmares and listens to the encouraging rushing of water into the empty pot. 

The smell is enough to perk himself up and he manages enough cognition to check a clock tucked into the shadows of the common room. It’s set to Earth time and he reels when he sees it’s only 2 in the morning, just shy of an hour after he went to bed. He supposes there’s probably some fine Altean movies locked in one of the storage vaults and, with a cup of piping hot coffee, he starts meandering down the hallways. 

All of them are locked sans one and Shiro has drained his entire cup by the time he reaches the space, jittery from the caffeine. His eyes are glazed over as he runs his fingers down the spines of discs, not unlike ones on earth. There’s a few in badly translated English and he relies more on his scattered Altean than the English. In the corner is a movie with a gushing maroon ocean painted on the front, a young boy with purple hair diving under the waves. Shiro can’t help the smile that blooms on his face when metal shines back at him in the image, the boy sporting two metal legs, feet fused together in a mermaid fin. 

The couch gives way to Shiro’s body as the movie begins, flashing light colors over Shiro’s form. He pulls a thick blanket up to his chin and sits on top of his legs, pulling a pillow to clutch to his chest. 

He’s desperately trying not to cry by the end, the persistent ache in his arm muted, eyes weeping for a character that had what he did. Lived a life full of adventure and loss and joy and grief and everything in between. It was poignant and small and for the first time in a  long time, Shiro stared at the invader on his body, at the metallic synthetic material that coated it, the slight, almost humming, clicks as he moved the fingers and joints. He imagined his arm before, pale and dotted with dark Asian hairs, a small scar on his middle finger from a paring knife. He imagines the warmth of it, the consistent weight, and the touch of his mother’s fingers in his. 

He misses it. He misses a lot of things before that mission. Living with Keith between missions in the middle of the desert, cooking traditional dishes and listening to Keith whine about homework as he shoved rice in his mouth. The pitiful looks in Adam’s eyes everytime he suited up to leave, the warm, bright kisses on his mouth that left him wobbly in front of the ship, the threats of what would happen if he didn’t come back. He misses meetings and agendas and flying back to Japan on the holidays, the snow a leaden weight on his boots and dandruff in his hair. 

He startles when Lance’s feet pad into the common room, bleary eyes landing on Shiro staring at his hand. He gets a wounded smile when his head shoots up in fear and Shiro feels a distinct pang in his heart. For everything he misses, for all the pain that the Galra had caused him,  Voltron was a new family and start he could never really hate. 

Lance sighs as he settles next to Shiro, eyes drooping as he places his head on Shiro’s shoulder. 

“I told you to wake me when you had a nightmare,” he sounds disappointed but not angry. Shame licks across Shiro’s cheeks nonetheless. 

“You needed the sleep, after last week. How’s your side by the way?” Shiro deflects, ignoring the slump of Lance’s shoulders to lift up his top and run his flesh hand over the ragged stitches. The skin is warm but not hot and he doesn’t feel the swollen puckering that Lance had just a few days before. 

“It’s 4 in the morning, Shiro, I’m fine. Think you can sleep again?” 

Sweat beads on Shiro’s forehead as he thinks back to what woke him up but soothing images of the little boy cover it and up and Shiro pecks Lance quick on the lips, savoring the distant purr of Lance’s satisfaction to tug him up and back to bed. Lance is a warm putty in his hands, barely coherent, when they finally make it back and his arms instinctually snake around Shiro’s waist, grounding him. 

He thinks if everything had gone differently, if he’d made it back, if he hadn’t lost Adam, if he still had his human hand, he’d miss this. He’d miss Lance and Voltron and saving the universe with a couple of orphaned Alteans. He’d miss the wounds he has now, and the strength he carries with him. 

He’d miss it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I like exploring Shiro's PTSD because I feel like the show does an okay job from the seasons I've seen (1 and 2) but there's definitely more than what they show. There's no way he has a decent sleep schedule and I'm sure that the rest of the team is worried about him constantly. I wanted to write something too that had someone else hurt/emotional than Lance and thought Shiro would be the one I could do the most justice with. I hoped you liked this and if you did please leave a comment or a kudos. It would mean a lot to me. 
> 
> -C


End file.
